


bad moon rising

by shiegra



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Creepy, F/M, Other, Solo Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiegra/pseuds/shiegra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ARCHIVE] To be honest she knows it’s not smart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad moon rising

**Author's Note:**

> For a vd_kink prompt of that involved Elena/Elijah teasing, though I was away from the internet when I filled it and thus didn't realize it doesn't really fit the prompt. (Archiving edited works.)

She's been doing this...this _thing_ , lately.

To be honest, she knows it's not smart.

Elena likes teasing. She likes the way anticipation fizzes in your veins, the sweaty-palmed urgency of mutual desire that's not urgent when you begin and makes you need like your next breath by the time it finishes. She likes the _good_ kind of teasing, where each moment stretches between one glimpse and the next and your breath catches on the honey-sweet and slippery promise of fulfilment. Not only does she liked it, she's good at it, and she misses it - Matt wasn’t the right target audience, and she and Stefan hadn’t been light-hearted enough for playing for a while. Now when they're in bed together, more often than not they _clutch_.

This, though, this is...something else.

It serves him right, honestly. She tells herself that every night as she mounts the stairs, bids affectionate _goodnight_ to Jeremy and Jenna. It runs like a defiant banner reel around the inside of her head as her pulse trips in her fingertips and she pushes the door closed behind her. It serves him right for watching her.

She knows he doesn’t do it all the time - apparently he’s a busy proto-vampire - but she’s gotten a pretty good radar for when he’s showed up. At least, she thinks she has, and if she’s wrong then there’s no harm done at all.

All the same, every evening when she feels the prickling weight of eyes knifing through the obscure protection of her curtains and pressing between her shoulder blades, Elena undresses with extra care.

First her sweater tonight. She shrugs it off one shoulder and then the next, letting it slip down around her body. It catches on the thin weight of her tank top underneath, dragging one strap down to hang around the warm flesh of her upper arm. She tosses the sweater in the direction of her laundry hamper and doesn't adjust the strap. The cool air brushes over the first soft hint of breast and she imagines that his eyes follow.

Her jeans next, popping the button and running her thumbs around beneath the waistband to frame her hips. The zipper peels open and she tugs them down over her ass, avoiding residual soreness, minor everyday scrapes - she fell this morning, running for the car and having to swerve to avoid the neighbour's dog. Every bite of pain reminds her she's alive, reminds her of the future.

She knows the red lace underwear she’s wearing is riding up a little, folding over smooth flesh. She pauses, standing balanced with her jeans down around her upper thighs, and smoothes it out until it accentuates exactly the way it was intended to accentuate. And then she bends over and drags her pants off, shifting from one foot to the other to shake them from her feet. Socks while she’s down here, hand planted on the bed to keep her balanced, and then she swings up again, tosses the bundle in the laundry and sweeps up her hair. She knows what she looks like, silhouetted in the warm glow of her lamp, dark hair cascading through her fingers and fanning across her shoulder blades. What her tanned skin looks like against the lace, and the way the thin material of the tank top rumples at her hip. She's never tried to use it as a weapon before, and she doesn't know how Katherine ever manages to keep the hot knife from cutting both ways.

She can’t pretend, even though she gave it a brief go at the beginning, that this doesn’t make her stomach tight and hot. That she doesn't imagine him standing still outside her house, watching through the perfunctory shield of half-drawn curtain, briefly rubbing his fingers together. That she doesn’t wonder what he’d do if he was in the room with her, or if she opened the window and said his name, or any number of stupid reckless things that she knows are fantasy, just fantasy, but not a safe fantasy.

Every other fantasy these days makes her anxious, from hazy summer memories of puberty and the Water Hole, backseats or bleachers to memories of Stefan’s mouth on hers, cool flesh and hands in her hair. Everything is unstable; everything is unreliable. She’s teetering on the highwire. Every step takes her down, down, down.

But with Elijah, she knows where she stands. It may not be a pretty place, but her feet are well planted.

And even if he came up the stairs and pinned her to the bed, pushed her legs open and fucked her raw still wearing his immaculately pressed suits with his hand on her jaw holding her mouth open for his tongue, it wouldn’t change.

Elena shudders, lets her fingers claw through the last sweep of her hair and in a sudden fit of motion she peels her tank top over her head.

She doesn’t face the window. She isn’t thinking about this but she isn’t that far gone. If he’s positioned right he’s getting a flash in the mirror, taking this another dangerous step along the wire. But Elena walks to her bed, toes curling against the rug, unable to differentiate between the heaviness of a watching gaze and the heavy, exhilarating heat in her own flesh. She falls across the bed, curling her body against the blankets. It's not a restful posture; her knees dig into the covers and her spine is like a strung-taut wire. She tucks her hand between her thighs, cupping warm flesh, and she closes her eyes and just leaves it there for a moment, clenched around that hot pressure, just _feeling_.

She's waiting. For her courage to return or for her recklessness to overcome her or for some subtle, perilous signal from the street. Some cold finger of foreboding that will warn her _this time, you took it too far_.

Lust grows too fast for anything else to catch up.

Her tense thighs and warm skin, her hair slipping across her back and her nipples, already tight and pressed into the coverlet. Elena feels flushed and with a slow arch of her spine muscles flex, bones shift, her body a coiled organic machine waiting for a command.

She bites her lips with how badly she wants that cruel, casual hand on the back of her neck, buries her face in the pillow and moves her fingers against herself a little. Parts her lips through the red lace, feels the dampness, the soft blood-flushed swelling of tissues.

When she hits her clit, angling her knuckles against herself, she jolts automatically like she’s bit into a live wire. _Oh god_.

She's never gone this far in front of him, but she knows she isn't going to stop.

_Come on_ , she dares, to do what she doesn't know - she doesn't even know who she's daring anymore, recklessness rising like a red tide. _Still watching_?

She clamps her thighs tighter, until the bone of her wrist digs into the soft flesh at her inner thighs, until it's uncomfortable tension. Her nails curl against the edge of her clit and _oh_ , just there, a slumberous ember of pleasure-pain that runs up her belly to her ribcage. This is _hers_ , it's all hers, steeped in the quiet black space of her measured breathing. She's alone in her room. ( _She never feels safe alone anymore. She never feels safe with others_.) Matt fumbled and Stefan was careful and any other boys she’d dated before passed into obscurity, none of them had given her this. None of them had held this in their hands it’s only Elena, cupping the lush daggered promise of urgency and agony in her fingers like heat and gouting arterial blood.

The sound shudders out of her, a high little hiccuping gasp, a noise she didn’t realize was coming. She bites her lips to swallow the rest and her fingers slip and slide. She rubs harder. Tension pushes her legs out and taut and she hears the shuffle of the blanket, stirred up and threatening to tip over the edge of the bed.

As her fingers work against her, rubbing in slow hard circles and just at the edge of penetration, she pictures the front door opening. She pictures the genial smile he might wear in case any Gilbert interrupted him along the way; she imagines his hands with their long fingers and hard knuckles on the bannister, trailing lightly as if he’s walked the steps a thousand times before, as if he's intimate with the grain in the wood and has any right to be here, touching their house like he’s fond of it, like it’s his own.

She pictures him turning left, treading lightly on the carpet but not bothering to be soundless, and the tip of her finger slides inside just a little. She clenches, feeling the tightness in her belly, and bucks her hips against her own hand, almost feeling the weight of his eyes on her back, the way he’d brush the door open and stand silhouetted. She pictures tiny diamond raindrops caught in his coat and already slipped into his hair and she imagines him taking a single, measured step closer, his eyes pressing like a palm on the long, bared, tense curve of her spine.

He doesn’t even touch her before she comes apart.

Elena lies there for long, soft moments, slowly going slack into the blankets and listening to the subtle drum of a gentle rain against the window. She cradles her mound with a relaxed hand, cupping the place where she can still feel an echoed pulse twitching in her clit, and tries to catch her breath.

There’s no current of air, no sound of footsteps, and when she peeks under her hair the door is still firmly closed. She’s not surprised, but she had to check, a reflexive compulsion she didn’t bother to fight. Her house is still as secure as it’s ever been.

She’s still just as alone as she was before.

Elena pulls her hand out of her underwear and pushes up decisively from the bed. She walks over to the window.

She stays to the side, not showing off to any unsuspecting passersby on the street, but if you were looking through the filmy white curtain in the gloom - if you were looking - she isn’t hiding.

Elena doesn’t look out to see what’s on the street as she snaps the curtains shut.


End file.
